Lady Polly

by Nicola Cornick

  Polly gave him a repressive look which he met with one of limpid innocence. “Shall we see you at the ball then, my lord?” she asked demurely, trying to withdraw her hand from his.

  Henry did not release her. Instead he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss on it. “Certainly you shall. I hope you will save a dance for me, Lady Polly!”

  “I should be delighted, sir.” Polly cast him a look under her lashes. He was still smiling in that slightly challenging way, and for a moment her heart skipped a beat through sheer anticipation.

  “Until tomorrow then, my lady,” Henry murmured, letting her go at last. “I should be on my way to Fenchurch, I suppose. Your servant, ma’am. Miss Markham…Peter…”

  “Oh.” Hetty sighed soulfully, as they watched his tall figure stroll away towards the stables. “Oh, Polly, he really is so very charming…”

  The drawing-room door opened and Lady Bellingham came out, deep in conversation with Sir Godfrey.

  “…put up for the night at Farnforth,” Sir Godfrey was saying, “at the Rose and Crown. Not a bad hostelry, but a little overcrowded…”

  Polly was still gazing after Lord Henry’s retreating figure, but spun around at a faint noise from Hetty. The other girl had gone chalk white, her hands to her breast as though pierced by an arrow.

  “Gaston! A chair for Miss Markham!” Lady Bellingham, hearing Polly’s exclamation of concern, had hurried forward to take control of the situation. “Conchita! My hartshorn! There now, my dear…” With infinite gentleness she helped Peter ease Hetty into the chair. “Have no fear, you will feel better directly…”

  Hetty was drooping like a cut flower. She was still alarmingly pale, but her eyelids fluttered. Peter, kneeling beside her, was the picture of concern.

  “The heat…” Lady Bellingham was saying excusingly, although it was still early and a very fresh day, “and the wedding preparations no doubt. You must take care not to overtax yourself, my dear!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hetty said submissively, and Polly saw a tear slide from the corner of her eye and make a trail down her pale cheek. For a moment Polly had the horrible thought that Hetty might not wish to marry Peter and that that was what was making her so unhappy. Yet Hetty was gazing at Peter with the concentrated regard that was surely a sign of love rather than dislike, and was clutching his hand as though her life depended on it. And there had been nothing in their behaviour to suggest anything other than they were both pleased to be marrying so soon. Polly frowned. She had discussed Hetty’s strange behaviour with Lucille, but neither of them could understand why Miss Markham, normally so ebullient, had become so tense and woebegone. She was not ill. She should have been happier than ever before in her life. It made no sense.

  Hetty was struggling to get to her feet, a little colour coming back into her face.

  “I am so sorry…I cannot imagine what is the matter.”

  She saw Lady Bellingham looking at her with thoughtful concern and looked as though she was about to burst into tears. She scrubbed viciously at her eyes.

  “We had better start for home, Lady B.,” Peter said hastily, a protective arm around his betrothed. “It will be best for Hetty to rest. Shall we see you at the ball tomorrow?”

  The atmosphere lightened as Sir Godfrey added his pressing persuasions.

  “Dear lady, of course you must be there! You will be the belle of the ball, putting all others in the shade!”

  Lady Bellingham acceded graciously to his invitation and they went out to the carriage in a flurry of repeated good wishes and invitations. Peter and Hetty sat very close together on the way home, Hetty’s head against his shoulder, and Sir Godfrey sat in his corner of the carriage with a ridiculously fatuous look on his face. It was clear that he was dwelling on the delights of renewing his acquaintance with Lady Bellingham. Polly, despite the promise of encountering Lord Henry again the following day, began to feel decidedly left out. All the world, it seemed, was in love, but she was the only one who had no notion where it was leading.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You are in magnificent looks tonight, Lady Polly.” It was not Lord Henry Marchnight but Tristan Ditton who bent close to Polly’s ear, his sharp gaze appraising her with familiarity, his foxy face wearing an unpleasant smile.

  Polly stepped back sharply. For a man who had retreated ignominiously only the two nights before, Mr Ditton seemed in very high spirits. Indeed, he was positively effusive in his greetings, as though no matter of embarrassment had ever passed between them.

  “Save me a dance for later, fair one,” he purred, before moving on into the ballroom, leaving Polly to puzzle over his strange and unwelcome behaviour.

  The ballroom was filling rapidly as the guests gathered for the Dowager Countess’s impromptu ball. Sir Godfrey, looking as pleased as a dog wagging its tail, was escorting Lady Bellingham. Polly suspected Lady Bellingham of deliberately playing to the gallery, for she was drawing a great deal of attention in a dress of rich ruby velvet and some staggering diamonds. The Farrants and Fitzgeralds were also out in force, but Polly’s eye was drawn constantly to the door, awaiting the arrival of Lord Henry Marchnight. She knew, without the benefit of Mr Ditton’s compliments, that she was looking her best. She had brushed her dark hair until the chestnut lights in it had gleamed with rich colour and the curls tumbled becomingly about her face. Knowing that pastel colours, the favourite apparel of the debutante, could make her look sallow, Polly had chosen a dress of eau-de-nil. The style was appropriately modest, but the cut flattered her neat figure and the material whispered softly as she walked.

  The orchestra struck up for the first dance and Peter swept Hetty on to the floor, opening the dancing since Nicholas had chosen to sit out with Lucille. Hetty appeared to have recovered her spirits and was almost as vivacious as Polly remembered. Sir Godfrey and Lady Bellingham followed them onto the floor with barely concealed eagerness. There was less formality than at the London routs and balls, but the company was elegant nevertheless and, more importantly, was enjoying itself with gusto. Seeing Mr Ditton approaching her purposefully, Polly caught the eye of Charles Farrant, who had also been watching the door covertly for the arrival of the Marchnights. Charles could take a hint, and stepped forward to claim Polly’s hand before Tristan Ditton could reach her.

  “Mr Seagrave and Miss Markham make a very handsome couple,” Polly heard Mrs Fitzgerald remark to her partner, further down the set. “I am so glad that match is to be made soon…”

  As Charles Farrant swung Polly round, she caught sight of Tristan Ditton once more. He seemed to be ubiquitous. But this time Mr Ditton’s attention was not on Polly, for he too was watching Hetty Markham with a peculiar, brooding intensity. A sudden shiver ran down Polly’s spine. There was such a malevolent look on Ditton’s face that it disturbed her.

  A moment later, she forgot all about it. Lord Henry Marchnight was ushering his mother and sister into the ballroom, apologising graciously to the Dowager Countess for their late arrival. The light from the chandeliers gleamed on his carefully dishevelled fair hair and she caught her breath at the stark elegance of his evening attire. Then Henry turned and their eyes met across the room. Polly felt her pulse flutter as he held her gaze.

  The dance concluded and Charles, who had also seen the Marchnights arrive, escorted Polly to Lucille’s side, and hovered, looking hopefully across the room at Lady Laura. Polly tried not to laugh. Charles had the same eager look on his face as Sir Godfrey, as he contemplated the object of his affections. She hoped that the Duchess would allow her vigilance to slip and give Charles and Laura a little time together.

  “Come and sit by me, Charles,” Lucille said, taking pity on him and clearly thinking along the same lines. “I shall call Lady Laura over in a little while, when the Duchess’s attention is distracted!”

  Polly danced the next with John Fitzgerald and Nicholas Seagrave persuaded a blushing Lady Laura to join him on the dance floor. The Duchess beamed her appro
val. Sir Godfrey and Lady Bellingham were scandalising the guests by dancing every dance together, more amorously entwined than any younger couple. Several people looked horrified at this display, but Polly rather suspected that Lady Bellingham was deliberately putting on a show. Miss Ditton and Mr Bunlon looked decidedly more gloomy as they circled the floor together.

  “Do you return to London for the Little Season?” Polly asked Laura neutrally, when the dance ended and they found themselves together in the group around Lucille. She knew that the younger girl was feeling some constraint in her presence, no doubt arising from the fiasco at the Fair, and she was anxious to break the ice.

  Laura shook her fair head. “No, indeed, for Mama is making arrangements to send me away!” She bit her lip. “Dear Lady Polly, I am so sorry for the way I have behaved towards you at Cold Hollow—”

  Polly put her hand on Laura’s arm. It was hardly the place for heartfelt apologies, but Laura was certainly sincere. She was looking positively miserable.

  “Say no more of it,” she said decisively, with a warm smile to show that she bore no grudge. She raised her voice a little to attract Charles Farrant’s attention.

  “So you are to leave us, Lady Laura? I am so sorry! Where do you go?”

  “Mama has decided that it would be good for me to visit my sister, Lizzie Ellerbeck, in Northumberland,” Laura said, glancing through her lashes at Charles Farrant. “I wish that it were not so, but Mama is adamant that Lizzie requires company. She is increasing, you know, and no doubt Northumberland is a strange and lonely place to be all alone in Ellerbeck’s medieval castle!”

  “How Gothic!” Lucille commented, with a smile. “You must make the most of your time amongst us then, Lady Laura, and dance every dance! Mr Farrant…”

  Charles Farrant cleared his throat. “Er, yes, indeed…Lady Laura…if you would grant me the honour…”

  “An awkward suitor,” Lucille said with a smile as she watched them go, “but an honest one for all that! I do so hope that the Duchess will relent! Laura could do much worse…”

  “Playing Cupid, Lady Seagrave?”

  Extraordinarily, Polly had missed Lord Henry’s approach, so absorbed had she been in the romance of Lady Laura and Charles Farrant. Lucille had the grace to blush.

  “Oh, Lord Henry! Perhaps we should not encourage them, but it seems such a pity for their hopes to be dashed…”

  Henry grinned. “Romance is most decidedly in the air tonight, is it not?” He turned to Polly as though he had more pressing matters on his mind than his sister’s future. The gravity of his salutation was belied by the wicked twinkle in his eyes and she felt the same breathless sense of anticipation that had come over her at the House of Tides.

  “Dance with me,” Henry said softly, persuasively, taking Polly’s gloved hand and pulling her to her feet.

  Lucille caught her husband’s eye and smiled. “Some of the company seem to have no need of Cupid’s help,” she observed lightly.

  Polly was feeling the same melting excitement that had possessed her when she saw Henry enter the ballroom, but this time his proximity intensified the feeling. He drew her into his arms as the waltz struck up. She could not tear her gaze away from his, from that grave but concentrated expression in his eyes as he considered her face upturned to his. They did not speak throughout the dance, yet Polly was sharply aware of him all the time. The touch of his hand on hers, the brush of his body against hers gave her an acute physical consciousness of him. Polly was caught in so potent a spell she had no wish to break it.

  When the dance ended, Henry did not escort her back to Lucille’s side but to a love-seat in an alcove.

  “Are you enjoying your day of uninterrupted pleasure, sir?” Polly asked lightly, smiling at him as she sat down. “I have not yet had the opportunity to congratulate you on your second place in the race today! I hope you were not too disappointed to secede the cup to Mr Fitzgerald!”

  Henry laughed. “I have to concede to the better sailor! It’s true I was disappointed—one is always aiming for the prize.”

  There was something meaningful in his gaze that made the colour come into Polly’s cheeks. She hoped he thought her a prize worth winning.

  “I was also disappointed that you were not able to join us for luncheon,” Henry said, after a moment. “I understand that the Dowager Countess does not approve of the Queen’s Head?”

  Polly laughed. “No, indeed! We tried to persuade her that it is a respectable hostelry but I think she feels it is little better than an alehouse! But we did enjoy watching the race. It was a very beautiful day.”

  “Everybody seems most glad that the amusement is continuing here tonight,” Henry said, looking about with a smile, “but then the Dowager Countess’s entertainments are renowned!”

  For a moment Polly thought of Mr Ditton, the only person present who did not appear to be enjoying the evening. She almost told Henry about Ditton’s curious malevolence when he was watching Hetty and his peculiar familiarity with her, but then she dismissed the thought. Mr Ditton’s foibles were nothing to do with her after all.

  “I hope,” Lord Henry said, turning back to her with a lazy smile, “that you have recovered from the events of the night at the House of Tides. It must have been a most disturbing experience for you.”

  “Finding Mr Ditton creeping into my bedroom in the dark was indeed unpleasant,” Polly agreed tartly. “There were other events that night, however, that I found equally disturbing!”

  Henry’s lips twitched. “Indeed! Whatever could those have been?”

  “A door that was locked which mysteriously became open before locking itself again,” Polly said coolly, “and a meeting I witnessed between yourself and Lady Bellingham which led me to believe that both of you were engaged in the business of smuggling!”

  There was a silence whilst the dancers spun before them and the strains of the music swept on.

  “Three curious events in one evening,” Henry said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, and those were only the three I witnessed! Who is to say that there were not more!”

  Polly saw the flash of amused appreciation in Henry’s eyes.

  “You have suspected me for a long time, I think,” he said easily. “A smuggler, a malcontent, a rabble-rouser, the rich patron of a dangerous criminal, perhaps…What extraordinary deeds you have credited me with, Lady Polly! I wonder that you dare be alone with me!”

  “We are not alone,” Polly pointed out, still cool.

  “We were when I came up the turret stair the night before last and unlocked the door into your bedroom!”

  Polly bit her lip to prevent the gasp that was almost audible. She had sought to provoke him without believing that she would hear answers such as this. Her dark eyes kindled. “I might have known you had the key! Creeping around in the middle of the night, and into a lady’s bedroom—”

  “Yes, you have no idea how much I have wanted to be there,” Henry said smoothly. “You were fast asleep and looking quite delightful with your hair tumbled all over the pillow! I was tempted—”

  “Lord Henry!”

  “Must you be forever interrupting my most ardent dreams, Lady Polly? Alas, that the reality is far colder than the fantasy! Or at least—” his tone dropped “—I used to think so…”

  Polly fought to get a grip on matters before they slipped beyond her control. “Lord Henry, I believe that you owe me an explanation! That is the point at issue, not your fevered imaginings!”

  “Well…” Henry looked around at the crowded ballroom “…it is too busy here for complicated explanations. If you will walk a little with me, I undertake to tell you all you wish to know. Or almost all,” he added with a whimsical smile.

  Polly eyed him with suspicion. “Truly?”

  “Truly!”

  “But can you tell me? Should you?” Polly suddenly felt uncertain. “Perhaps I do not wish to know after all—”

  “Too late,” Henry said laconically, pulling he
r to her feet. “You already know too much, Lady Polly! A little knowledge is more dangerous than the whole truth!”

  At one end the wide ballroom doors led through to the winter garden, with its palm trees and warm, ferny twilight. They strolled slowly along the tiled path.

  “Where to start?” Henry said thoughtfully. “I suppose the beginning is in London, with the arrest of Chapman at the gunsmith’s and his subsequent escape. As you know, he is a dangerous malcontent and one of the most wanted men in the country. He has undoubted gifts of oratory and can stir up the populace to riot and revolt. He uses other men’s discontent for his own ends, for he has no real interest in improving the lot of the common man. He has planned and executed more robberies with violence than I could tell of, and I have been hunting him down ever since he escaped.”

  Polly stopped and drew in a sharp breath. “Then you mean that you…You must work for the authorities—for the government?”

  There was an atmosphere of intrigue conjured up by the intimate darkness and the watchful stillness of the warm night. They started to walk again, very slowly, neither of them paying much attention to their surroundings.

  “Yes, I have worked for the government for the last five years, under many names and in many guises.” Henry sounded very matter of fact, as though such an admission was commonplace.

  “You mean that you are a spy?” Polly kept her voice level, finding it difficult to match his practical tone. She was astonished. Her images and perceptions of him had been plunged into a complete whirl.

  “I suppose you could call me that.” There was an element of amusement now in Henry’s voice, although he did not smile. “I do not care for the word. It is too…melodramatic. I have done all kinds of work—whatever is required. In the recent wars I spent some time abroad, in both France and elsewhere. I also collected…” he hesitated “…information from sources along the south coast.”

  Polly knew what he meant. The smugglers who brought in contraband goods might also have very useful intelligence from the continent, but the business was dirty and dangerous. She remembered the times when Henry had vanished completely from Society, how the gossips and tattle-merchants always had him conducting some scandalous love affair, or wasting his patrimony on gambling. He had covered his tracks well. And yet the strength and integrity she had seen in him, the contradiction with his superficial lifestyle had always puzzled her. Now it took on new meaning.